


The Counterbalance

by osamakes (sinuous_curve)



Series: Counterpoise [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Loss of Control, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:23:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/osamakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlais likes Bull even less than Cullen likes them. They can make it better for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Counterbalance

Cullen watches the nobility of Orlais dance blithely over bloodstains on the ballroom floor until he can stomach no more without saying something impolitic. Tempting though it may be, the Inquisitor is surrounded by prying nobles despite his horns and it seems a terrible waste of hard-earned goodwill. He's heard someone correct themselves in saying oxman at least half a dozen times. Truly, there are miracles in the Maker's will. 

"Excuse me," he says to the small knot of masked idiots that surround him, like scavengers at carrion. They decry the loss of his company on such a joyous night at such an early hour. Cullen manages a stiff smile as he pushes past. He imagines they will find some new diversion with which to carry on. 

He dislikes how conspicuous he feels in Josephine's red uniforms. He dislikes the eyes watching him, the words murmured behind fans, the ridiculous masks making it impossible to tell what anyone is thinking. 

He _dislikes_ that a dozen dead have lain in their own blood in within the palace's walls since the ball began, and that he's heard too many enthusiastic compliments about what an entertaining evening it's been. Adaar put an arrow through her cousin not an hour before, and Celene laughs with a glass of wine in her hand. 

Hang the Game. Burn it the ground. 

"Keep making that face and eventually these people'll figure out you're pissed off." 

Bull's voice, low and in his damned ear, startles Cullen such that he drives an elbow back instinctively. It doesn't land; Bull catches Cullen by his upper arm and his strength is more than enough to divert the blow. Cullen flares for a moment with anger he knows very well is misplaced. It takes effort to swallow down invective. 

He reminds himself that Bull likes these people no better than he does. He reminds himself that these people like _Bull_ far less than they do the reasonably attractive, blond, _human_ commander of the Inquisition's forces. It can, in fact, be worse. Cullen exhales strongly through his nose. 

"They may be the worst people alive," he hisses through his teeth. 

"They are small fucking fish, commander." Bull's fingers tighten around Cullen's arm until it begins to ache. _Thank the Maker_ , Cullen thinks. "Keep making that face and they're gonna wonder about a lot more than what pissed you off." 

If only the Maker had given him a liar's face. Perhaps he wouldn't mind the Game so viciously. 

"The nobility has been informed that I am tired and am retiring for the evening," Cullen says, turning his head so he can at least see some piece of Bull from the corner of his eye. "Assuming you've heard every polite oxman joke they can think to make and don't want to hear the ones that will come out once they've really had a chance to drink, I invite you to join me."

"They might miss me." 

"Fuck them." 

Bull laughs, except Cullen can only feel it as a vibration against his back. "Go," he says. "Get ready. I'll be there in a minute." 

Orders. Reasonable, practical, enjoyable orders. Cullen nods stiffly, and escapes the ballroom. 

He manages to find his way to the Inquisition's suite of rooms having only gotten lost once, despite every hallway of the Winter Palace looking exactly the same. When he finally does locate his quarters, he slams the door behind him with more force than might strictly be required. But what does it matter? It's silent in this part of the palace. 

The nobles didn't hear half a dozen murders. Surely they'll take no notice of him. 

Cullen closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think about the Orlesian nobility. 

Orders, then. A chosen obedience. 

He finds that it matters less than he thought that it's an Orlesian palace rather than the familiar stone of Skyhold as he begins to undress. The anticipation in his belly is the same. So is the sense of iron bands around his chest loosening. It always seems that he shouldn't feel both at the same time, and yet. 

As time wears on, he finds he cares less and less about the parts of this thing he does with Bull not making logical sense. There's something about faith in that, he thinks. The true test of it being the moments when logic and reason have nothing else to say. Fall or run. Cullen is -- well. He doesn't miss running. 

There's a deeply physical pleasure in stripping off the damned uniform. He's tempted to toss the thing on the floor, but grudgingly restrains himself. Josephine plays her role far better than anyone else would. Cullen supposes that unless he wants to take her place himself, she deserves the courtesy of his compliance. 

The parquet floor is cool beneath his feet as he stands, Maker-naked and, he realizes, deeply impatient. Apparently Orlais is infectious. 

Bull chooses that moment to arrive. 

"The fuck do people not get lost in here?" he snorts, closing the door behind him. 

He looks so damned _strange_ in his own uniform. Cullen heard the whispered comments about savages playing at civility, the snickers no one bothered to hide very well. Isn't the Inquisition funny, bringing their livestock to a ball? The muscle in Cullen's jaw jumps with anger that has no place to go. 

Bull doesn't look foolish, any more than the rest of them. 

Cullen, not allowing himself to think, strides to Bull, wraps hands around his horns, and pulls him down into a kiss. No, this isn't how things are done between them. Cullen does not _care_. There's a single moment where Bull's surprise stills him, then his hands are on Cullen's hips and he's kissing back. 

_Damn them_ , Cullen thinks, until Bull bites at his bottom lip and leaves him no room to think at all. 

"Damn," Bull huffs when they finally both must breathe. "Maybe we should come to Orlais more often."

"I would rather cut off an arm." 

Bull pushes a hand through Cullen's hair, his expression more thoughtful than anything despite a wry smile. "Hey," he says, low and rough around the edges. Cullen hears intimately the weight of the night as it sits on Bull's shoulders. "Fuck 'em, Cullen. And for now, you and I? We're gonna forget them. Those assholes don't get to be in here. Yeah?"

Cullen inhales for a three count and exhales for the same. He nods. "Yes."

"Good. They're not the one I want anyway." 

And then Bull's hand goes tight in Cullen's hair and yanks back. The thing in Cullen's chest that has remembered what it is to breathe since this thing began rolls over and shows his belly. _Maker, I never earned this_. But then, Cullen has begun to believe if he said that aloud, Bull wouldn't let it stand. 

Bull kisses him again, with teeth and force. Cullen digs his nails into Bull's shoulders, rising up on his toes to try and meet him halfway. It isn't possible, really. Bull's size borders on impossible, but effort matters to Cullen. Bull's nails scratching welts into his hip says it matters to Bull, too. 

"Get on the bed," Bull growls, breathless.

Cullen staggers a step backward when Bull releases him. His heart is a thundering noise in his ear. Like the rising tide before battle in some ways, but so different any meaning in the comparison falls to tatters as he crawls onto the bed. He catches glimpses of Bull impatiently undressing, mouth pressed into a flat line. 

When he's naked, Bull draws up to his full height like he's shed a heavy burden. He rolls his shoulders. The flex of his musculature makes Cullen's mouth go dry and heat dance faintly over his cheeks. Not everything is because Bull is Bull. Some things are more universal. Anticipation, and want, and need coil tight in Cullen's belly and balls. 

Loose, Bull stills and snaps his gaze to Cullen. His smile suggests sharp teeth, a predator scenting fresh blood. He advances toward the bed with a grace and silence someone his size shouldn't be able to manage. Cullen realizes, through the rapidly descending desire for use, that he has the uniform's blue sash wrapped around one hand. 

"On your knees. Face the top of the bed." 

Cullen obeys. 

The mattress dips when Bull joins him and there's a faint creak from somewhere beneath them. Cullen has a moment of uncomplimentary thought about fucking Orlesian aesthetics being of greater importance than durability. But Bull's heat and solidity pressed against his back is more important than Orlais will ever be. Cullen tips his head back against Bull's chest. 

Bull wraps his arms tight around Cullen's torso; he can't move and couldn't no matter how hard he tried. Anger flares for a moment in an old instinct that Cullen doesn't think will ever really go away, but it recedes just as quickly. In its wake is a rushing calm. Trust, too, uncaring that trust is harder. 

"Got you," Bull murmurs. And then, after a moment's hesitation, he drops a light, fleeting kiss on Cullen's forehead. 

But he leaves Cullen no time to wonder at that gentleness. He loosens his arms and before Cullen can tip forward, catches him with big hands around Cullen's wrist. Still, his balance isn't enough to keep him upright and his twisted shoulders flare with pain that makes him grunt. That makes his hips hitch forward and his back arch. 

Bull folds his arms in the small of his back and ties them with the sash. Raw laughter bubbles in Cullen's throat. He supposes a missing sash is easy enough to explain away, if anyone deigns to ask. Bull grumbles a low noise of approval, holding Cullen upright with one hand. With the other he draws his nails in a slow, burning line down Cullen's spine. Cullen arches, gasping. His back is only half-healed from Skyhold. 

"Fuck, Cullen." The words are so soft, Cullen isn't sure he's meant to hear them. Then Bull yanks Cullen back against his chest and growls in his ear, "I'm gonna fuck you on this expensive fucking bed."

Cullen finds he's shameless. He keens a short, high noise of agreement. 

Bull pulls him back to a steadier position on his knees, bites affectionately at a shoulder, and slides off the bed. Cullen forces himself to breathe evenly and to be still. His cock lays heavy and stiff along the bend of his thigh. He pulls against the sash; it's not meant for this and he could get loose. He doesn't want to. 

The mattress dips again. Bull steadies Cullen with a hand on his shoulder. With the other, he palms over the small of Cullen's back and his ass. Like he's soothing a skittish animal, Cullen thinks. They don't do this very often--this together with the night in Skyhold is more than in the two months prior. Cullen bows his spine and drops his head. "Please." The word is low, broken off, true. 

Bull presses the tip of a slick finger to his hole. "Got you," he repeats. "You with me?"

" _Yes_."

He pushes in slowly. With the thumb of his hand on Cullen's shoulder, he strokes at the back of Cullen's neck. Cullen is sharply aware of his breath shuddering in the quiet room, and Bull's controlled huffs behind him. Cullen's knees slide apart over the expensive bedding. 

Once, having asked Bull how he knew what to do, Bull laughed and told him bodies talk, it's just a matter of answering. It's easier when Cullen doesn't have to speak. It's become easier and easier to allow himself to move, and ask. He pushes back on Bull's finger, even knowing Bull can't go any deeper. 

_Please_ , he thinks, and _hear me_.

Bull inhales sharply. He's careful, with this. With _fucking_ , and there's enough of the Chantry's devotion left in Cullen that the word feels perverse and forbidden when applied to the act. It's the only thing Bull has brought to bed with Cullen that wasn't completely unfamiliar, and the only one with weight and history and meaning.

Cullen knows that Bull understands, but doesn't, really. It's just a thing to do, for him. He's careful with Cullen anyway. It's given Cullen trust. But the trust is there and this place, this palace, is a brutal and careless place. He held his tongue. He's tired of being careful. 

He pushes his hips back again, harder, and grunts at the flare of heat. 

"I get it," Bull says. "Ask for it. I. I need to hear it, Cullen."

Cullen tips his head back. He wishes for the hole in his roof and the stars above. "I want," he says. His voice sounds strange in his own ears. 

Bull grits out something in Qunlat that Cullen can't understand. It's the last restraint he has.

Cullen's awareness collapses to physical impression. The emptiness of Bull's finger gone. Bull's arm around his middle, pulling him back; his ribs ache and he thinks there will be a bruise and thus he'll be able to bite his tongue and smile at vipers. Bull's chest is hot and broad, sweat-damp, and heaving for breath. 

The capacity for gentleness does not mean the inclination for it. Control comes at a cost. Cullen can see, too. The shapes beneath Bull's skin. 

Bull drags the head of his cock along Cullen's crease, finds his hole, and pushes in. The finger wasn't enough and the slick is mostly sweat. Cullen bears down and Bull pushes his hips up. He can feel Bull shaking behind him, Bull panting, Bull's nails clawing in his chest. Cullen's folded arms have begun to shift from an ache to a pain that burns. He throws his head back against Bull. 

He _chooses_ this. He's a soldier, bred to orders, and that shouldn't matter, but it does. 

There's no pause when Bull's cock pushes in as deep as Cullen can accept. Bull lets go and then Cullen is held again. Less gently, thank the Maker. This is trapped, not held. This is used, not cared for, not pity. Cullen knows he's the one crying out. His throat is raw as the rest of him. He stutters his hips in nothing resembling a rhythm. It doesn't match the brutal, vicious efficiency of Bull fucking into him. 

The heat roiling through him isn't desire, it's a consuming need that turns everything besides their bodies to the buzzing of wasps in the back of his mind. 

The noise coming from Bull, matching the piston of his hips, resolves for a moment into something Cullen can understand. "Mine, fucking _mine_ ," and Maker, fear will come later when anything else can matter. He'll hold to how this feels. Unspoken, so large in his chest it stops his breath, a yes in the moment where there's only reaction. 

He feels the moment when Bull comes undone. Bull contracts around him, folding Cullen nearly in half. He shoves his face between Cullen's shoulder blades. His hips drive past the deepest point before, and Cullen cries out, pushing back, _accepting_. A different heat spills inside him and Cullen lets himself fall over the edge. 

Impressions, then. So far away they have little meaning.

Hands on him, a mouth on him. His skin is somewhere else. His head is white light, slowly receding. 

"Cullen." 

He makes a noise. Tries to reach out, his hands have gone wherever his skin is. 

"Cullen." Bull, he realizes. He swallows and feels himself breathing. "Gonna pull out. I've got you." Bull's voice is ragged. That sparks contentment, not concern. Funny. 

It's Bull's cock dragging out of him that slams Cullen back into himself, with a croaked cry and knife-edge flares of heat and pain that make him convulse. Bull's broad palm plants on his belly and holds him down until Cullen's just shaking. He swallows again, blinking at the blurry shapes of the room until they return to focus.

"You in there?" Bull asks. 

Cullen's laying on his side with Bull pressed along his back. Bull's hand eases carefully off his belly and moves to his middle. Bull is very warm. "I." Cullen closes his eyes a moment, then forces them open again. "Yes. I. Mm. Yes."

Bull huffs a rough chuckle. "I was. Worried. Damn, Cullen." 

He wants to reach around and touch Bull, and only remembers he can't once he tries. He flexes his fingers against Bull's stomach and Bull jumps, grunts a mild string of invective, and starts tugging at the sash. Whether it's from the knots seizing or his own fingers turned clumsy, he makes a low sound of frustration after a few moments and chooses the easier path of ripping. 

Sensation rushes back into his arms and Cullen makes a sound somewhere between a sigh of release and the grunt of pain. Bull eases him onto his back, carefully rubbing at the joints. He'll move stiffly in the morning. Dorian will probably laugh. Cullen accepts it. 

"Cullen." Bull's hand cups at his jaw, and Cullen jerks his eyes open again. Bull looks down at him, with an expression Cullen doesn't recognize and can't interpret. "Do you know you came?" 

Cullen frowns, and manages an interrogative grunt. He couldn't lift his head if Corypheus split open the sky above them and descended with an army of demons. He looks down his chest and can just see his soft cock on his belly. Bull quirks a smile and pushes a finger into his mouth. Cullen tastes semen, his own, not Bull's. 

Stranger things, he supposes. Though that stranger thing has never happened to him, not even when he was a boy at the mercy of stiff winds and dreams. 

Bull strokes his thumb absently over Cullen's mouth, then exhales and shakes his head. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, a little fast and a little low. 

_Yes, thank the Maker_ , Cullen thinks. Bull's hand touches him lightly, absently, at his mouth and throat, his collarbone and sternum. Understanding comes to Cullen then, in a slow roll of awareness. Get called a savage beast enough, and showing any hint of that becomes.... His hands aren't good for much yet, but he manages to press one on top of Bull's. Bull goes still. 

"I asked. I _wanted_ ," Cullen rasps. Wanted to be used, be hurt. "Thank you."

Bull's shoulders sag and he hums understanding. He drops his face to Cullen's shoulder and Cullen, unburdened, closes his eyes for sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Kink AND feelings! It can be done. Someday Cullen will learn to use his words.


End file.
